


Indentation

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12779901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Meludir runs into a tall glass of water at the mall.





	Indentation

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Another dinky Melu-in-a-dress modern!thing. Because I just bought Reputation. And then used it for this. Because I guess Taylor Swift speaks to me.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or Taylor Swift’s “Dress” song or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

On his rare days off from school, studying, and the inane retail job he has to keep to afford them, it feels so good to be out and about again. The mall’s surprisingly slow for a Saturday, especially at lunchtime, when the food court’s usually too packed to even bother waiting in line. Today, Meludir’s managed to get fries from his first choice of built in “restaurants,” and he’s even found a table while they’re still warm. The off-brand smoothie stall in the center actually had enough strawberries left to make his favourite kind of frappe, and both taste delicious. Only a few of the fries are burnt. The generic pop that drones in through the overhead speakers is actually on a song he likes, and he hums it around his straw as he stares across the large open space. One of the glitzy boutiques that’s out of his price range has a particularly striking black dress in the window—slit up one leg with off-the-shoulder sleeves and hypnotically sparkling fabric. It’d probably look fabulous on him. Most things do. Or at least, that’s what all his followers on social media seem to think. They tell him he should be a model. He’s considered it.

But then he’d have to drop out of the anthropology course he’s already wasted two years and too-much-money on, so it’s a no go. Although, he could probably afford that dress on a model’s salary. He could almost justify splurging on it for graduation, but he knows that by the time he’s finally finished, he’ll have his eye on something else. He idly picks at fries while he stares anyway, trying vainly to find reasons to throw his budget out the window.

He’s pulled out of his reverie when the lilting song ends, and a deep voice inquires, “Is this seat taken?”

Meludir glances over, rejection already on his tongue. He likes a spot of spontaneous fun as much as anyone, but in broad generalizations: the majority of the time strangers sidle up to him, it’s Men that think he’s a girl. Other elves usually go for the more toned type, and dwarves automatically label him ditzy and useless. Not that a few haven’t tried for a brag-worthy one-night-stand anyway.

As soon as he’s actually looking at his latest suitor, those thoughts seep away. An easy smile flitters onto his face, and he answers coyly, “Hopefully, it is now.”

The man grins, proud and pleased, somewhere just short of predatory. He pulls out the seat across from Meludir and settles down at the little table, made absurdly small and thus perfect for just such an occasion: the man’s knees brush Meludir’s. A long swath of white-gold hair sweeps down broad shoulders, and the most handsome face Meludir’s ever seen regards him in obvious approval. It doesn’t take Meludir long to recall the man’s name— _Thranduil_ —because the night after he learned it, it was on his tongue as he touched himself to the thought of this exact person. Thranduil looks just as delectable now as he did then, standing in the dim lights of a packed manor, prim and polished in a silver suit with the burning blue eyes of a feral tiger. Meludir waltzed willingly into Thranduil’s territory. He offered Thranduil a cheap plastic cup full of expensive red wine, and he listened all evening to Thranduil’s honeyed dulcimer tones. He can barely remember what they said, but he remembers giggling and leaning forward and hoping Thranduil would take him to one of the bedrooms upstairs, before the party inevitably shut down and he wound up in a cab alone. 

Because Meludir never did find out how Thranduil, probably the oldest elf at the party, knew the birthday boy, Meludir tries, “Are you a professor?” He means at Mirkwood U, because that’s where Legolas goes. They only have a few classes together, but nearly the whole campus was invited. 

Thranduil sets one arm on the table, turning his body to the side and crossing his legs, and he answers, “No. I own a winery.”

Because that sounds _amazing_ and Meludir’s trying not to seem _too_ childishly eager, he jokes, “You were catering, then?”

“Actually, I own the property.”

“Landlord?” Meludir tries.

“Father,” Thranduil corrects, and it takes Meludir a second to put that together—Thranduil’s Legolas father. Now that he hears it, he isn’t surprised. And he’s not deterred in the slightest.

He counters, “So that’s where Legolas gets his good looks.”

Thranduil’s grin stretches with approval, and he all but purrs: “You’re a cheeky thing.”

Giddy, Meludir smiles. He often forces one on purpose, because he’s been told many times that he has _such a cute smile_ , and sometimes it can get him things he wants. He wants Thranduil. But this smile is genuine, and he has to take another sip of delicious strawberries-and-crème froth to keep from bubbling over.

Then he tries another fry and nudges the paper carton over—Thranduil indulgently plucks one up. Meludir tries not to stare at the way he presses it onto his tongue, curling around it and sucking it inside, pink lips looking all too kissable. They didn’t _quite_ kiss at the party, but another drink, and Meludir would’ve had the courage to try, or ask Thranduil to— _beg_ Thranduil to—it’s been far too long since anyone really sparked his interest. Whatever fleeting crush he had on Legolas is three times as strong with the man in front of him. 

Because he won’t squander a second opportunity and Thranduil seems to be waiting for his move, Meludir breaks the comfortable silence: “This is lucky, you know. Seeing you again.”

“Is it?” Thranduil smoothly returns, playful and alluring. “I’d thought the opposite this morning when my tablet crashed, but it seems the hour it’ll take the shop to fix it might be worth the inconvenience.”

Meludir’s determined to make it _very_ worth it. He takes his time with his next fry, and judging by the way Thranduil’s eyes fall to it, he must do almost as well as Thranduil does with bizarrely seductive eating. When he’s swallowed, he licks the salt off his lips, and mentions as casually as he can, “I don’t think I had the chance to get your number.”

Thranduil quirks a brow. “Do you usually get the numbers of your friends’ fathers?”

“Just the ridiculously attractive ones.” The risk pays off: Thranduil’s eyes smolder, and Meludir leans across the table like he’s got a secret. Though he doesn’t find the situation creepy anyway, he adds, “But I wouldn’t really say I’m _friends_ with Legolas. We share a few classes, but we’re not really close...”

Thranduil leans a fraction forward as well, and a long strand of silken hair slithers down over his shoulder. Meludir desperately wants to run his fingers through it. He doesn’t understand how Men can shave their hair. Thranduil muses slickly, “That’s good, because I’d hate to have to compete with my own son. I don’t think I’d enjoy having to show him up.”

The thought of Legolas and Thranduil competing for him makes Meludir so warm that he has to look away and find refuge in his icy drink. His eyes seek out the dress again, still glittering through the far-off window. The mannequin doesn’t do it justice.

“You’re here shopping for clothes?” Thranduil concludes. 

Meludir hums, “Yes,” and tries not to slip into vivid fantasies of clothes shopping with _Thranduil_ , the two of them dressing each other up in lewd things with searching hands before making rough love in a changing room. He’d love to take Thranduil out of his crisp button-up and black jacket, fit him in a barely-there tank instead, and get crushed up between him and a mirror. To distract himself and hopefully cool down his burning mind, Meludir shares, “I’m thinking about splurging on that dress.”

“That store’s quite pricey,” Thranduil notes. Maybe he remembers Meludir’s job—Meludir probably mentioned it, though it’s nothing to brag about. He’s sure he babbled. He nods, sighing forlornly. Judging from the way Thranduil’s dressed and the fact that he owns a manor and a winery, he must be loaded. He asks, “What would you wear it for?”

In a moment of wistful hunger, Meludir answers, “For you to take it off me.”

Again, he’s rewarded for his boldness. Thranduil’s heated gaze practically melts Meludir’s existing shirt and jeans right off. Leaning close enough that Meludir actually tilts in wishful preparation for a kiss, Thranduil purrs, “In that case, I’d like to buy it for you.” Meludir shivers, and Thranduil ignores Meludir’s parted lips in favour of eating the final fry.

Then he’s withdrawing and crumpling up the empty carton. When he rises from his chair, he holds his hand out for Meludir, who slips right into it. He shoulders his bag and collects his drink, then follows Thranduil towards his daydreams.


End file.
